


be my mr. loverboy

by hammersandstrings



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hammersandstrings/pseuds/hammersandstrings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean has a secret valentine. Marco has no idea. It's probably Reiner and Connie's fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	be my mr. loverboy

**Author's Note:**

> my first ever snk fic!!! wow  
> i'm a day late for valentine's day (blame watching like eight hours of figure skating coverage) but sometimes jeanmarco calls (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

On Friday morning, Jean opens his locker to fetch his worn, library-issued copy of _The Grapes of Wrath_ for English and is promptly assaulted in the face with a sparkly pink greeting card.

He immediately blames Connie. Everything is always Connie’s fault.

“I didn’t do shit, man,” Connie says with a barely contained laugh at the card in Jean’s hand. Not only is it pink with a little feather border, but there are little pictures kittens on it, and what’s worse is that the cats aren’t even a part of the card. Whoever the culprit is actually went to the trouble of putting little kitty cat stickers all over it. Unbelievable.

Sasha is his next guess, and she barely steps up to her own locker beside his and Connie’s before Jean thrusts the card accusingly at her.

“ _Aww_ , look at the widdle kitties,” she coos in lieu of anything helpful. “You have a secret valentine or something?”

 _Valentine?_ Jean stops to think, because the last time he checked, it was still the beginning of February… right? Like, they had their economics midterm last week and—

Shit. It’s Valentine’s Day. On second glance, the cat stickers all have lame little catchphrases on them: _Happy Meowlentine’s Day_ and _I think you’re purr-fect!_ , and the card itself has a generic _Be Mine_.

“ _Fuuuck_.”

“Don’t be such a sourpuss!” Sasha says. The cat pun isn’t lost on Jean. If he wasn’t sure she could kick his ass, he’d annihilate her for it. “What if it’s someone you like?”

“I don’t like anyone,” Jean insists. He steadfastly keeps his eyes away from the locker across the hall, closer to the drinking fountains, where he usually finds himself looking after fetching his books from his locker in hopes of catching a glimpse of black hair and a Trost High Soccer hoodie. But not today, he doesn’t need to blush at a time like this when he’s in Serious Jean mode.

“Is that code for ‘still hung up on Mikasa Ackerman’?”

“Connie, I swear to _fucking_ —That was freshman year, must we always bring that up?” Jean grumbles. It was _one time_ , homecoming of freshman after when he pierced his ears and bleached his hair a horrendous shade of piss yellow and thought he was the biggest badass ever. Mikasa had walked away from his invitation with nothing more than a single raise of the eyebrow. Really, it bothers him more that he has absolutely no game to speak of than it does that Mikasa turned him down. Everyone in the world knows that Mikasa Ackerman is too ethereal for mere mortals.

“C’mon,” Sasha insists, “there’s gotta be _someone_ you’re hoping it is.”

“Hey, Jean!”

Speak of the unfortunately timed devil, Marco Bodt appears out of fucking _nowhere_ , smiling a stupid adorable smile, his stupid adorable freckles dark brown over the natural bronze of his cheeks.

“Marco. Hey. Um… hi.”

“Hi,” Marco repeats, cheeks dimpling as he smiles. He has _dimples_. Jesus Christ, who even allowed this? How has Jean never noticed that in four years of staring at the side of his head during class?

Jean averts his eyes and stares at the card in his hand as Marco passes, flanked by Reiner and Bertholdt on one side and Christa and Ymir on the other. The handwriting beneath the card’s message, a scrawled _To: Jean, From: ?_ , is too scratchy and messy to be Marco’s neat, scrawling print, but Jean’s traitorous mind starts to dwell in what ifs anyway.

Sasha’s locker closing heavily catches Jean’s attention, and his hands grip tighter to the pink cardstock in his hands when she stretches an arm over his shoulders.

“Well _that_ turn of events answered my question,” she says, smugness coloring her voice. Jean hates her. She may be his oldest friend and there may be literally hundreds of photos of them in diapers and Lion King pajamas stowed away in his parents’ photo albums, but in that moment, he hates her guts. “Since when do you like Marco?”

“I don’t,” Jean grumbles.

“How did you _not_ know, Sash? Jean’s had a boner for him since freshman year P.E. when he fell on his ass during hurdles and Marco helped him up,” Connie says. If Jean hates Sasha, he despises Connie with the burning intensity of a million suns. After today, he decides, he’s going to need new friends. “Blushed like a frickin’ tomato.”

“It was an embarrassed blush, okay? I had just fallen in front of, like, a hundred kids,” Jean says, shrugging Sasha’s arm off of his shoulders and shoving the valentine back in his locker before slamming it shut. “And I do _not_ have a boner for him.”

“Then, like, an emotional boner. A heart boner. An erection of affection.”

“Affection erection!” Sasha laughs. “That’s exactly it!”

Yeah, Jean definitely needs new friends. When the bell rings, he elbows both of them in the sides and wonders if more than halfway through senior year is an appropriate time to, like, totally change cliques.

  


* * *

  


First period mercifully, blessedly, goes by without any more embarrassing gifts from his secret admirer.

Second period, not so much. When he sits down in art class, Ms. Ral drops a yellow slip on his desk, excusing him to the front office to pick something up from the security window. He comes back to class with a four-foot teddy bear and all eyes on him as he tries in vain to shove it into his backpack. The damned thing won’t even fit in his locker, so he’s stuck carting it around all day.

Third period is relatively calm, until he dumps the bear next to his desk and learns that the fluffy little asshole squeaks “ _I love you!”_ when you push hard enough on his stomach. Hanji is at their desk facing the class and can’t stop laughing for a good three minutes after it happens. When everyone is silently doing their worksheets half an hour later, Eren Jaeger makes it a point to lean past Jean’s desk and kick the bear’s stomach so it squeals all over again. Jean hates his life, mostly.

Fourth period goes off without a hitch, but after fourth is lunch, and well…

“Not a fucking singing valentine. No. I will walk out of here. I will get arrested for truancy. I will _fucking_ —”

The glee club sings an a cappella version of _What Makes You Beautiful_ while Connie and Sasha each grab one of Jean’s arms and pin them down to the table so he can’t get away. Jean hates his life completely.

He slumps down in his seat just in time for the bell to ring for fifth period. He hates math with a burning passion, but no one would dare interrupt Levi’s class with a Valentine’s gram, so he’s in the clear, even if Levi glares at him and his bear as he tries to maneuver it into the empty desk  in front of his.

Also, maybe he’s a little excited because he sits next to Marco in this class. Maybe.

“Jean! How are—oh, wow, nice bear.”

Somewhere in the back of Jean’s mind, it clicks that Marco’s look of genuine surprise and amusement is putting him low on the list of potential secret admirers. He would be sad about it if he wasn’t so glad that Marco isn’t the one putting him through all of this shit.

“Connie has dubbed him Sir Lames-a-lot,” Jean says, kicking the leg of the desk the dumbass bear is sitting in. A high-pitched _“I love you!”_ interrupts Levi’s explanation of statistical significance, and Jean ducks his head down to avoid the man’s stony glare.

“Oh my gosh,” Marco says, reaching forward to poke at the bear. “That is both cute and horribly embarrassing. Who’s it from?”

“Fuck if I know,” Jean murmurs. “Secret admirer. Probably Connie pulling a lame-ass prank.”

Marco laughs, and even though Levi shushes the two of them, leans closer to Jean and says. “I’m actually kinda shocked Reiner isn’t trying to pull anything on me today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He was going on last week about how I was gonna be the fifth wheel between him, Bert, Ymir, and Christa. I said I didn’t mind it, but—”

“But he’s Reiner,” Jean finishes. “Six feet of well-meaning under like eight tons of muscle.”

Marco laughs, and his dimples show up again, deep-set in the dark, freckled skin of his cheeks. Jean thinks he would almost forgive all the embarrassment if Marco did end up being his secret valentine after all. Almost.

  


* * *

  


In sixth period econ, there is a simple post-it note sitting on Jean’s desk.

_To: Jean_  
 _From: ?_  
 _Meet me in the auditorium after school._ _♡_

Jean spends all of economics twiddling his thumbs, mind racing with thoughts of who’s going to be in there. He doesn’t even acknowledge Connie and Sasha when they greet him as the final bell rings, instead pushing past the crowd of students to make his way to the auditorium all the way across campus.

There’s soft piano filtering through the room when he finally shoves the door open. The tune is slow and somber, not exactly the over-the-top romance he’s been subjected to all day, and it’s a welcome change. Whoever’s playing is humming along as well, their voice sweet and soft and familiar.

“Marco?” Jean calls. Marco is seated behind the piano, lips barely moving as he murmurs lyrics to himself. Jean catches a few words here and there, _“I’ll never go home again”_ and something about holograms, he’s not paying attention to any meanings because Marco’s voice is sweet, hesitance causing him to rush a few notes so they crack discordantly in his throat, but warm and pleasant. When Jean calls his name again, he startles, one hand slipping and playing a sour note before he stops.

 _“Fuck,”_ Marco breathes out, managing a weak laugh. Jean laughs along, just a bit, if only because he’s never heard Marco say fuck in his life. “You scared me.”

Jean knows his cheeks are beet red as he strides forward with the little yellow post-it stuck to a sweaty palm. _This is it,_ he thinks. He drops Sir Lames-a-Lot into a seat in the first row and makes his way up the small set of steps leading to the stage. _This is the moment you get to tell Marco about your stupid high school-long crush on him._

“Your face was a teensy bit priceless,” he says. He leans up against the side of the piano, close enough that he can see the faint blush on Marco’s cheeks.

“I, uh, just wasn’t expecting anyone in here, sorry,” Marco says. “It’s usually just me until Mr. Bossard kicks me out.”

“Shit. Sorry, man.” Vague disappointment curls in Jean’s stomach upon the realization, yet again, that his valentine is not Marco. He had just been ready to forgive him for the kitten stickers and the One Direction serenade, too.

“Nah, don’t be. I’m sure my friends would say that I could use the company.” Marco’s lips twist into a small grin. “You just startled me for a sec, that’s all.”

Silence follows as Jean tries to reconcile the fact that he’s been stood up by his secret valentine. It’s not really a bad thing, he supposes, because anyone who thought public embarrassment and giant talking teddy bears were the way to his heart is seriously misguided. He’s just… disappointed? Is that the right word for it? It’s like the Mikasa Situation 2.0, another friendly reminder that he has no game.

When it’s been quiet for a few minutes, Marco hums a little, the same tune as before, and gestures for Jean to sit with him on the bench while he closes the lid over the piano keys.

“That’s pretty,” Jean says. “The song, I mean.”

 “Oh, thanks. It’s Lorde.”

“Like Jesus?”

“Haha, no, like _‘and we’ll never be roooyals.’_ But, um, a different song,” Marco chuckles. The flush on his cheeks darkens when he sings the line, and Jean is all the more enamored for it. “I’m helping Christa with a choir performance next week.”

“Oh.” The proximity is suddenly an issue. Jean feels Marco’s leg pressed against his, warm through both of their jeans. He reaches a hand out to tap his fingers against the piano lid in a vain attempt to distract himself from it. “I didn’t know you could play piano.”

Marco grins. “Since I was tall enough to reach the bench. My mom’s a music teacher.”

“Oh shit, yeah, I forgot about that. Sina Elementary, right? Everyone loved her when we were in second grade.”

“Oh my god! The year we did, like, the world’s most condensed and censored version of _Les Mis_ for our spring musical.” Marco ducks his head, eyes crinkled as he laughs until there are tears in the corners of his eyes. A minute later, he calms and knocks a shoulder against Jean’s. “I forgot we were in the same class back then. We never really talked, did we?”

“Nah. I was a moody little shit and Sasha was the only one who would put up with me,” Jean admits.

“I would’ve,” Marco says. When Jean looks at him like he’s grown a second head, he backtracks, “I mean, I put up with little Reiner and Ymir back then. I’m sure little Jean would be a walk in the park compared to those two.”

Before Jean can say something stupid like _“I wish we’d have been best friends”_ or _“hi, I’m very enamored with your face and I want to kiss it, if that’s okay with you,”_ Marco lifts his head to stare out into the rows upon rows of empty seats, lips quirking into a smile.

“I think your bear is eavesdropping on us.”

“Ugh,” Jean groans, remembering the stupid fuzzy nuisance. “Fuck the bear.”

“Your valentine not turn out the way you wanted it to?”

Jean sticks the post-it to the piano. “This got dropped onto my desk last period, hence why I came here.”

Marco reads the thing, handing it back over when he finishes. “I haven’t seen anyone here but you.”

“I figured. It’s whatever. Like I said, Connie’s probably just pulling a prank. I’ll kick his ass later.”

It’s quiet again, maybe a little tense, until footsteps come from backstage, Mr. Bossard following shortly behind the sound.

“You know the drill, Bodt,” he says, and Marco nods.

“Guess that’s our cue,” Marco says. He grabs his messenger back from beneath the piano bench and slings it over his shoulder. “You doing anything special for Valentine’s Day?”

Jean snorts. Special? Yeah right, not after the day he’s had. “Sasha always has me and Connie over for an Anti-Valentine’s Day movie marathon until she and Connie get tipsy and end up making out while I try to finish. So, y’know, a night of third wheeling and drinking her parents’ cheap booze.”

Marco’s fingers toy with the lanyard hung out of the edge of his bag, shaking and unsteady until he blurts, “We could, uh, hang out? See a movie or something, and there’s that pizza place on the corner of Rose and Maria with the really good garlic knots? Uh, if you wanted to, that is.”

Right on cue, Jean’s stomach growls, starving after being too distracted by the crushing feel of embarrassment to eat anything at lunch.

“I could go for some garlic knots,” he replies, and before he loses his nerve, reaches out to cover Marco’s fidgeting hand with his own. “And maybe a valentine that won’t stand me up?”

He can feel the twitch of Marco’s muscles, the brief freezing and tensing, but before he can pull his hand away, Marco’s fingers slide comfortably between his.

“Yeah. Sounds good to me.”

“On one condition, though?” Jean asks. Marco loses some of the color in his face until he adds, “The fuckin’ bear’s not invited.”

Sir Lames-a-Lot sits dejectedly in his front row seat as the two leave the auditorium hand in hand. Serves him right. Furry asshole.

“You’re not even a little curious about who’s been sending you valentines all day?” Marco asks when they reach the parking lot. “I would be.”

“Nah,” Jean says. “I mean, they thought I wanted to be publicly embarrassed several times over, so I kind of don’t care. My valentine is way better anyway.”

It’s cheesy. It’s lame as hell. He should regret it, but he doesn’t, because Marco’s lips find his immediately after, pressing a lingering peck to his mouth.

When Marco’s little blue Honda Civic drives away, Reiner steps out of his own gold pickup truck three parking spaces down, cell phone pressed to his ear.

“Yo, Connie. Operation Embarrass Jean Into Being Set Up With Marco is a success.”

“Dude, really? Did they catch on?”

“Nah, I don’t think either of them knew.”

“Bro. We’re geniuses. Fuckin’ geniuses.”

“You can say that again.”

“Fuckin’. Geniuses.”


End file.
